Ok, first things first I should probably get through the
cliché, yet mandatory, portion of my blog where I apologize for it turning into
such a long time between posts. Truth is, lots has happened to me that would
have been worth writing about, and it’s not like I’ve been too busy to post.
The problem is that I was lazy, and
sitting down to write about myself or my thoughts when I could otherwise do
something of much greater importance like watching Netflix or checking Facebook
just seemed like a much better alternative. That is until I got on the road
again, started traveling around for the sport I love, and figured that, “Hey,
This is a pretty cool life. I better start writing some of it down”.
My spring started a bit early this year. It was a
particularly snowy day on the east slope of the divide. You know the movie poster
for The Day After Tomorrow and in the
foreground you see the flame of the statue of liberty all but concealed beneath
an apocalyptic layer of snow and ice. Yeah, it was one of those days. Anyway, my
dad and I were sitting around when, either out of the blue or out of
desperation, my dad decided a trip to Saint George, Utah was the solution. 783
miles, 11 hours and 25 minutes later we were carving up the desert. The snow
was a ways off.
Our time in paradise couldn’t have gone much better and by
the end I was only a little tired (and sunburned).
It was hard to muster much enthusiasm for returning to the
cold white north, but lucky for me I had a light at the end of my snow tunnel;
the bright shining light of SoCal. I’ve written about SoCal before (and yes, I
realize that calling southern California “SoCal” is one of the dorkiest things
a non-Californian like myself can do, but hey, it rolls off the tongue) and
every time I’m down here it’s the same thing. Yeah it’s nice. Yeah, the weather
is perfect. And for all those wondering, yes, California girls are undeniable,
but in the past when I’ve been down here it just seems… busy. Too busy for me.
I’m at home in Montana where the roads are beautifully
desolate and where the mountains are obscured only by the highest clouds, not
low lying smog. Where strip malls are an occasional and optional sight, not a
way of life stretching from LA to Monterey. I’m used to a place where the pines
tickle me as I blossom though the foliage down the trail; a cool breeze making
my eyes water though my palms still sweat, embracing my handlebars for all they’re
worth. Look ahead. Dive right. Twist your hips. Pull up on the front- the back
will follow. The intricate dance of the bike and biker. The dirt, soft and
black, crumbles away in a controlled madness. That’s all the outdoor world is,
controlled madness. Nature may watch, fix, and nurture, but never organize. Perhaps
that’s what has made me uncomfortable in the past with California. The lack of spontaneity;
the overwhelming appearance of predicable patterns was throwing off my balance.
The absence of nature was causing me to lose my connection with madness. But
perhaps I just wasn’t looking deep enough.
I’ve been down in California for exactly one week now, and
in that time I’ve found the nature. I’ve been on my bike and I’ve heard the birds
sing; I’ve smelled the flowers, cocooning for the night, release they’re final fragrant
breath. I’ve sucked the dirt in my lungs and I’ve baked in the sun and I’ve
stood at the top of mountain lookouts and seen the ocean. I am finally at home
in California. I have finally realized that beneath the hustle and bustle of
the concrete jungles here and all over the world, if you can just dig deep
enough you’ll always find nature buried beneath.
Like always, I couldn’t be here, exploring the world and
diving into these new adventures without the overwhelming support of my friends
and family. I hope everybody back home can start burning down the trails really
soon. Thanks for reading.
P.S. I'll have many more pictures next week of Saint George, of California, and hopefully of the sun shining back home.
